Lightning Crashes
by S.S.R. Kremlin
Summary: Adam Torres died on the operating table. At the same time, a few miles away, a runaway was mistakenly killed before his time. Adam wakes up the next morning with a different face, a different identity, and not much else to go off of. A second chance at a life he never had...but maybe the one he was supposed to. Will he ever be a part of his family again?


Summary: Adam Torres died on the operating table. At the same time, a few miles away, a runaway was mistakenly killed before his time. Adam wakes up the next morning with a different face, a different identity, and not much else to go off of. A second chance at a life he never had...but maybe the one he was supposed to.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

So as much as I miss the old Degrassi (Palex for life!), I still tune into the new one (sometimes). And they have been royally messing things up, in my opinion. It's sorta like it turned into a horror movie - who's gonna die next? I mean, JT, Cam, Adam...did I miss someone? I probably missed someone. Hmm...but anyway, this idea came to my head after that last episode (I call shenanigans). I'm not much of a writer (in terms of being able to dedicate time, its more of a hobby), and I don't really have much direction on where this story would go, but I thought I would get this out of my head, and see what kind of reception it gets. Here we go.

* * *

A teen walked down a dimly lit street, hands shoved into his pockets as his shoulders hunched forward against the surprising summer night chill. His home was finally in site as he quickened his pace.

Lost in this recognition, he failed to hear the approaching feet behind him.

"Hey, Tommy, you wouldn't be ducking out on us would you?"

The teens eyes furrowed as he picked up his stride. Who the hell was Tommy? He didn't get a chance to answer before being blindsided by something dense and cool.

"Shit James, what'd you do that for?"

"You're tripping something hard if you think he's ever gonna give us our money. It's just a love tap."

"With a crow bar?"

The teen, who had crumpled to the ground at the blow, groaned.

"Let's just teach him a little lesson, right boys?"

Another blow to the side of his head. Some to his torso. A boot to his back. After several minutes they stopped beating him.

"Next time get us our money on time," said the second voice.

Through his one good eye, he made out the blurry features of a young man, older than he, but still young. Unshaven and grimy.

"Damn James, this isn't even Tommy. You just beat the snot out of some kid."

"What?"

"This is not good. Let's get out of here before someone sees."

Three pairs of feet ran off, leaving the teen behind, blood pooling onto the side walk. With difficulty the teen crawled the remaining few feet to his door. Maybe he could get inside and phone for help.

He blacked out before he even touch the knob.

* * *

The morning was dreary, overcast and wet. Fitting for those touched by the most recent tragedy in the Degrassi community. Several neighborhoods away, in a run down apartment complex, a boy was kicked awake.

"Get up boy," his elderly neighbor said, as she tried to maneuver around his prone form. Sprawled across the small entry way they were forced to share, as he was, made passing neigh impossible.

With a groan, the young teenager curled up into himself, leaving enough space for the lady to move around him. She did so none-too-gently. The teen lay there in confused silence for several minutes, trying to remember something, anything about who and where he was. Something about a tree was all that came to him, and he sat up, blinking in confusion. He did not recognize his surroundings. Clutched in his hand was a small key chain. To his house? Possibly. He wore an old windbreaker, dirty jeans, and paint splattered boots, which had seen better days.

Adam, he thought. His name was Adam. As he sat up he rummaged through the pockets of his jacket, pulling out a tattered wallet. Flipping it open, he studied his school ID, Degrassi Community School, the only form of identification he apparently had. Adamo L. Costa. Adam for short, he figured. Yeah, that's why it sounded so right. On the flip side was contact information. 821 Rift Ave, Unit 13.

He looked up to the rusted number on the mail box that was drilled to the brick wall. 821 Rift Ave.

His eyes turned towards the battered door on his left. 13. He slowly climbed to his feet, falling heavily into the wall as his world spun. He struggled for several moments, before he figured which key was for the knob and which was for the dead bolt. Finally unlocking his door, he pushed it open frowning. Nothing looked familiar to him. The apartment itself, if it could be called that, was in as good shape as the rest of the building.

Immediately to the left of the door was a small kitchenette, containing a fridge, which only came up to his shoulders, a small expanse of counter top, half occupied by a two burner hot plate, and a sink. On top of the short refrigerator was an over-sized microwave oven. On the opposite side of his six foot long kitchen was a bathroom, complete with a toilet and corner shower. The sink was in front of the apartment's lone window. The glass was frosted, making curtains unnecessary, and the first level had bars on the outside of all the windows, for security purposes.

To the immediate right of the door, all of three feet from his 'kitchen' was an opaque curtain that had been nailed to the ceiling. He pushed it aside to step into his bedroom. There was enough space for an army cot, with a pillow, sleeping bag, and a grey wool blanket adorning it, a plastic three-drawer dresser, a clothes hamper, a canvas camp chair, and a bucket, that was apparently doubling as a table/night stand.

There was some memorabilia adoring the white washed walls - old movie posters, some band ones. There was no TV to be found, nor a computer, but the sparse shelving that lined the walls was stacked with comic books, old and new. With a heavy sigh, Adam fell into the camp chair, tugging his wind breaker closer against the chill. Did this place have heat? He couldn't remember, but probably not if he had to guess. What did he even do for fun?

An obnoxious beeping broke the silence, and he jumped slightly. He followed the noise to his bed, digging around for a second before coming away with an out dated, beat up phone. He flipped it open, stopping the alarm. Work flashed across the screen. Where did he work? He looked around the room for anything that could help tell him where he should be.

A calendar! He read over the dates for a brief second. _RENT & ELECTRIC _was scrawled in under the first with _PHONE_ scrawled under the 14th. Pinned over the picture, on purpose he was sure, was a pizza napkin with writing on it.

_SUMMER SCHEDULE  
Sunday OFF  
Monday OFF  
Tuesday (PAY DAY!) OFF  
Wednesday 11-6  
Thursday 11-6  
Friday 3-10  
Saturday 3-10  
_

He looked at the name of the restaurant that was on the napkin. _Slice of Heaven._

Well that isn't modest at all, he thought, the name ringing a bell. He had gone there with his family before, hadn't he? It sounded familiar, in any case.

He checked his phone again. Saturday 1:52. He frowned, before looking through the drawers. They were full of socks and boxers, and a couple of ratty tank tops. That left the bucket. He scoured through it, pants folded on one side, shirts on the other. Finding a crumpled maroon polo with the restaurant's logo on it, he pulled it out of the bucket, inspecting it. Seemed clean. He put it aside, along with a pair of well kept, black khakis, before heading to the bathroom, noting how he smelled.

There was no door, just a folded curtain that stayed shut with a magnetic clip. He didn't bother, instead switching on the small overhead light. He paused, studying himself in the grimy mirror that was above the toilet, opposite the shower.

His chocolate brown hair was caked to his head with blood, he was alarmed to find though, after a minute of close probing, there didn't seem to be a wound. Green-hazel eyes looked unfamiliar under a thick brow. His skin had a dark olive tone to it. He was maybe average height, with a slight build. There was a notch at the bridge of his nose, probably had been broken in the past. Despite his confusion, his full lips stretched into a grin.

"Gotta get cleaned up," he muttered to himself, turning towards the shower. He cranked the handle to as hot as it could go, and stepped under the lukewarm spray with a frown. He simply soaked for a minute before grabbing the lone bar of soap, Old Spice his nose identified, and scrubbing himself clean from head to toe. He had spent all of ten minutes in the shower before stepping out and drying off, hanging his towel on a hook next to the shower stall. He wandered back into his 'bedroom', dressing and rolling on deodorant. He still had about 45 minutes before he had to go, he figured.

_Slice of Heaven_ was on Summer Drive, according to the advertisement on the napkin. That was only a couple streets from Rift Road, if memory served. With that in mind, he looked around his room once again, spying a back pack in the corner. He retrieved it, dumping out the contents onto the tiled floor. A flash drive, a simple black planner, a drawing pad, a book, and a pouch of pens/pencils. With a 'hmm' he studied the flash drive for a moment.

Plain, black, eight gigs. Nothing spectacular. He flipped through the drawing pad for a couple of minutes. Sketches of dragons and knights, some demon looking thing that seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place from where. He picked up the book, testing its weight. The hard cover had been drawn on so much with marker, that it was almost impossible to make out the original green underneath. He opened it, curious as to what it could be about.

It was a journal. Blinking he read the first page, dated almost two years ago.

_Finally out of that place. I don't think Antonio will notice I'm gone, he was always too drunk to notice me when I was there. Unless he needed a target. I had to hitch-hike a few times, but three days later here I am. Toronto. I found a shelter to stay at for a while. Until I can get a job...if anyone will hire a 14 year old! I hope somewhere, though...as soon as I save up money, I'm getting my own place. Someone who will rent to a kid. I think that might be harder than finding a job. - ALC_

Adam flipped through a handful more pages in the journal, noting things of idle interest. After lying about his age by a little, it had taken three months for him to find a job, and another four before he had enough money for a down payment. Mullen's was the name of his landlord, he was a grouchy, no non-sense kind of guy, but didn't otherwise care who he rented to as long as they paid on-time every month. Micro-apartments, he claimed his lodging as. Adam wasn't sure they were even that big, if his was anything to go by. Assuming that all of them were the same.

He turned to the planner, picking it up. Bingo.

In the front pocket was a bank book. He opened it, noting the amount in his savings account in surprise. Saving was good. Maybe he'd be able to get a new place one day. A folded up employee's contract stating he earned a little more than the $9.60 minimum wage. At 28 hours a week, he estimated out about $250 take home each week, after taxes. He turned the page, finding more contracts folded up in each consecutive page. Monthly prepaid phone information, rent, electric.

Ahh, he thought, there's the reason I'm living here. Adding everything up, and factoring in food, he was banking almost half of his monthly pay, he estimated. Besides, once school started back up, he realized, his hours could change.

He flipped through more pages - addresses for where to send payments, bank information, email, school information, his most recent report card (honors, he noted with a hint of pride). He snapped the book shut before returning it to his back pack with the rest of his stuff. Flipping open his phone, he went to the contacts. _Work. Mr. M. School. Frankie._

Four contacts, only one appearing to be personal. He clicked Frankie's name, bringing up their messaging history.

Nope, only stuff about helping paint a house. Checking the time Adam slipped into his boots - one of his two pairs of shoes - before shrugging on the jacket. Maybe I'll look into something a bit heavier, he thought, shouldering his bag. He grabbed the battered skateboard that was leaning on the wall, next to the door, letting himself out before doing both locks behind him. With a few strides he hopped off the entryway, landing on his board as he came down. He kicked off down the street, taking what he estimated to be the quickest route.

He reached the pizza parlor in ten minutes, pushing the glass door open as a bell chimed.

"Cutting it close Ad."

Adam frowned at the older teen behind the counter. He was five minutes early. With a shrug, he looked around the restaurant with curiosity. The dark red walls were adorned with all things Sicilian. Landscapes, uniforms, flags. The dining room itself was nearly spotless, obviously well kept. The dark wood tables complimenting the varnished wood floor. It was a warm atmosphere. A large glass counter allowed customers to watch their food be prepped and put into the several large ovens that lined the wall behind it.

"Come on, those tables aren't gonna bus themselves," the other teen nodded towards the recently abandoned table. Adam crossed the restaurant, pushing himself into the _Employees Only_ room, where he found a card reader on the wall. He frowned at it for a second, before grabbing his name tag from its clip. Noting the bar-code on the back, he paused for a moment, before he swiped it through the reader.

_A. COSTA  
CLOCK IN or OUT_

He pushed the button under 'IN', and the screen flashed green before going blank again. With a shrug, he clipped the tag onto his shirt, trading his backpack and jacket for an apron. Uniform set, he wandered back into the dining room, searching it again. Behind the counter was another doorway, into what seemed to be a kitchen. He went that way, taking in a deep breath of raw pizza dough. In a large metal sink there were several dirty dishes, and a cart next to that with two buckets on it.

Busing tables was something not a totally foreign concept, though it took a while before he got a system going. By the end of his shift, still two hours to go until closing so he wasn't stuck with the taxing cleanup messes, he had fallen into a moderate, though effective, rhythm.

"Hey, Adamo. You still gonna help me with that house tomorrow?" One of his coworkers asked. Adam turned, giving the older man a once over. He was middle aged, but sturdily built, not someone you would presume to work in a pizza parlor. His name tag read _Frankie_. From the brief chatting they had done in between duties, he was primarily an independent contractor, who's business had fallen into hard times, hence the second job. Adam had been able to conclude that he regularly helped Frankie with the odd job for a little extra spending cash - painting, wall papering, other forms of medial labor work.

"Where is at again?"

"The Pastor's house, remember? Been working on a new bathroom."

"Oh yeah."

For some reason, at the mention of the Baker's house, a pang of longing shot through him. His brow furrowed at the response.

"Look, kid, it's supposed to rain pretty hard tomorrow. I'll pick you up on my way there, okay? Be ready about 9?"

Adam just shrugged, before nodding.

"Thanks."

"No problem. You better head home, it's late."

Untying his apron, Adam hung it up, before donning his jacket and bag again. Clocking out, he grabbed his skateboard and was off.

He made it home in good time, and let himself into his apartment, flicking on the single overhead light . The cold still lingered, despite it being summer, and he dreaded to imagine what it would be like in the winter. Stripping out of his work clothes, he changed into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt before clambering into the sleeping bag. It was, he was happy to note, surprisingly warm. With a soft, grey flannel liner on the inside, and a heavier, black denim-like material on the outside, it was almost two inches thick of cotton. The wool blanket in contrast, was scratchy and uncomfortable up against exposed skin, but added a comfortable layer of warmth when on top of the sleeping bag.

He shifted around for a little bit, trying to get comfortable, before burying his face into his pillow. He was out in minutes.

* * *

For the record, if it is not clear, yes. Adam does have some level of amnesia. Will he get his memories back? We shall see. He recognizes people/places, but doesn't necessarily know where from or what importance they are to him. And for anyone who's wondering why he's not freaking out or something, well...memory loss isn't always like that. Sometimes you might not even realize that something is...well something that you SHOULD know. The human mind is a crazy thing, that subconsciously makes justifications for things that we might not even realize (I sound smart right? Just kidding, my mom was in a car accident a couple years ago and had some amnesia, and it was frustrating for her cause she had people she was close to who she just couldn't remember and stuff. 'Adamo' doesn't have those close relationships here).

Anyhow, I apologize for any mistakes. Want to see more? Got any ideas? Lemme know what you think and how you feel about this, and I'll decide if it's worth pursuing the muse.


End file.
